Mr Hairdresser
by LaughingSenselessly
Summary: Bellamy brushes Clarke's hair one morning because surprisingly, he's good with that kind of thing. Takes place in Season 1 canon. One shot.


It was six in the morning, the Grounders could attack any day, and her hair wasn't cooperating.

"Come- on-" she grunted, pulling the small wooden comb through her strands of golden hair. The thing wouldn't budge, and suddenly she felt incredibly exhausted.

Her tent flap rustled, and she could see out of the corner of her eye a silhouette standing right outside. "Clarke, you awake?" A familiar gruff voice asked.

Feeling irritated at everything, Clarke neglected to reply, pulling forcefully at her hair.

"Princess, wake your ass up-" Bellamy Blake's head poked through the tent flap. "Oh." He watched her for a moment where she was cross-legged on her blanket, tugging at the comb- before he walked inside, boots crunching against the uneven ground.

She turned toward him, hating his stupid face and his stupid curls and his stupid little smirk and his stupid shirt that clung way too tight. "What?" she said testily. "I'm busy."

"I can see that," he sneered. "I'm not normally one to stop you from your beauty routine, but Lee has an injury."

She tugged extra hard at the comb, but the snares in her hair wouldn't let it break loose; instead, she felt tears gathering in her eyes from the yanking of her hair from the roots, and a little frustration. Bellamy stood near the entrance of the tent, watching her struggles passively with folded arms.

"What did that idiot do this time?" she near snarled, turning away, but not before Bellamy sent her a strange look.

"Wrong side of bed, princess?" When she didn't reply, but continued to yank on her hair, he elaborated. "Monty thought it was a good idea to give some of the younger kids moonshine last night. Naturally, they got sloshed, and long story short Lee sprained his ankle."

Clarke felt an irrational surge of irritation for Monty. "We need to tell him to stop with the damn moonshine. We can't afford to have our soldiers drunk when the Grounders come."

She readied her hand for another yank at her hair, her patience wearing very thin- and then a large, warm hand closed over hers and she looked up, startled. Bellamy stared at her calmly. "Let me."

She must have been wearing a rather dubious look on her face, because he chuckled suddenly. "You seem to forget I was my sister's only friend when she was growing up. I know how to brush hair, Princess."

After a moment of hesitation of staring into his dark eyes- what the hell, he seemed genuine enough and she was this close from lopping all her hair off anyway, she let go of the comb. It remained stuck in the rat's nest on her head.

He huffed a laugh as he kneeled on one knee behind her. "What were you doing last night that made it so tangled, Princess?"

There was an implication to his tone she didn't appreciate. "It was windy, Bellamy. Give me a break." She sighed and closed her eyes.

He left the comb in its spot and began to rake through her locks with his fingers. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he slowly worked at the knots. He worked in silence for a minute before speaking. "So, what's got you all worked up anyway?"

She rolled her eyes even though he couldn't see. "I thought that part was kind of obvious."

"Yeah, yeah, your hair's a goddamn mess. But that's not it, is it." His breath was warm on the back of her neck as he sifted through her hair with his fingers.

She was surprised that he managed to pick up on her distress. Maybe he was a little more observant than she thought.

"It's just-" she sighed. "I'm worried about us, Bellamy. We're nowhere near prepared to fight the Grounders and then things like what happened last night keep happening, and I keep thinking what if we'll never be ready?"

She stared at the fabric of her tent, awaiting his response. His hands were rather soothing to her scalp after all the abuse she had inflicted on it. He was patient and gentle with his hands, a startling dichotomy to his asshole-ish personality. She found her eyes closing of their own accord, lulled by his ministrations.

When he finally spoke, she snapped back to the conversation at hand. "We'll be ready." He spoke with a certainty that he could not possibly have. "Don't worry."

She sighed again. "It's hard not to."

"I don't want you to worry."

Clarke's eyebrows shot way up at that, and the earnest way he'd said it, at least until he added, "you'll get permanent wrinkles on your forehead to match the frown lines."

"Shut up, Bellamy," she laughed. And yet she felt better at the teasing.

At this point he'd managed to get the comb out and was starting to brush with it. It felt incredibly satisfying after weeks of matted hair. He knew just how to do it, too; gently on her scalp, repeatedly brushing at the ends where little knots remained, parting her hair where she usually did.

"You brushed Octavia's hair, huh?" she said, just to break the silence.

He paused for a fraction of a second before continuing. "Yeah," he said, and his voice betrayed a trace of fondness. "I did whatever she asked me to."

Clarke had a sudden vision of Bellamy crouching on the ground playing with dolls, and tried to stifle her laughter. Her shoulders shook anyway.

"Hey, are you laughing at me?" He said, but she knew he wasn't mad, because there was a teasing lilt to his voice.

"I'm sorry, I'm just picturing you playing with dolls," she admitted.

She could hear his grin, and he didn't even deny it. "You can't judge me. You haven't seen Octavia's puppy eyes. When she turns those things on you, it's a 'whatever the hell she wants' kind of situation."

"So that's where your mantra came from," Clarke mused with a giggle.

He made a noise of agreement, and then got up, handing her the comb. Clarke found herself suddenly missing the warmth at her back. "It's done."

She slowly rose as well, feeling inexplicably shy all of a sudden as she accepted the comb from his hand, her fingers brushing against his palm momentarily.

"Thanks," she near whispered, eyes flickering up to meet his.

He smiled at her, and it was kind; it was startling, a little bit, to see that expression on his face- before it slowly transformed into his usual smirk. When he spoke again, it was with his usual attitude. "We can't have you healing the sick with your halo all dingy, could we?"

She rolled her eyes, the spell thankfully broken. "Okay, _thank you_ Mr. Hairdresser. You can leave now. I'll be out in a second."

With one last smirk in her direction, he turned on the heel and then his mop of curly hair was gone. Clarke spent a moment running her fingers through her own clean and straight hair- she hadn't wanted to give him the satisfaction while he was here, honestly- and sighing with contentment.

_He's really not _that_ much of an ass_, she found herself thinking as she ducked out of her tent.

Then she thought of his comment about her frown lines and thought with a little grin tugging at her lips, _okay, yeah he is_.

* * *

**A/N: I really hope you liked this little oneshot. I'd love if you left a review to tell me if I wrote these two well or if not what could I improve? Still trying to get a feel for their characters as this is my first time attempting to write them. Thanks for reading either way!**


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